


I'd Do The Stars With You Anytime

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Backstory, Bad Parenting, Episode Related, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gift Fic, Love, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Past Relationship(s), Sex, Siblings, Teen Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray Vecchio's courtship of Irene Zuko, and of Benton Fraser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Do The Stars With You Anytime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whysohardtofind1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whysohardtofind1/gifts).



> Thanks to Sock_Marionette for the suggestion that inspired this story and for beta-reading.
> 
> Note: Most of the “present” timeline of this story takes place during and around the Season 1 episodes _Pizza and Promises, Hawk and a Handsaw, The Deal_ and _Heaven and Earth_. Events from those episodes, _The Blue Line, The Duel_ and _Free Willie_ are referenced.

Ray was fifteen when he realized Frankie Zuko’s little sister might be worth paying attention to.  He knew she existed, of course, but why would he think about other guys’ kid sisters?  Bad enough that his own were always trying to tag along after him.

In junior high, he and Frankie had pretended to be friends, more or less.  But then there was the thing with Marco and the basketball that Ray couldn’t think about too hard; anyway, Frankie was an asshole and a bully, always had been. Which wasn’t Ray’s problem, but he drew the line at letting Frankie think he could walk all over _Ray_.  Frankie was welcome to his pick-up basketball games.  He was even welcome to swagger down the sidewalk and hang out at the drugstore with his little pack of “friends” taking up the whole place like he owned it.  But coming over to Octavia to play street hockey in front of Ray’s house and scuff up his sisters’ hopscotch games: that wasn’t something Ray could let slide.  That was a challenge.

So there was Ray lounging on the front steps of the Zukos’ big fancy house, all by himself because none of his so-called friends were real keen on getting in Frankie’s face, the wimps.  Praying Frankie would show up before his dad did, because pissing off old man Zuko was definitely not on the agenda.  But fortunately, Frankie came home at his normal time, and _oh yeah_ , the look on his face told Ray he’d scored.  Frankie got right up in Ray’s face, throwing insults, and Ray gave back as good as he got— _loser, asshole, brownnose, bastard, cocksucker—_ wondering what was going to happen when they switched over from insults to punches, because Frankie had an inch and twenty pounds on Ray, easy.

But he never found out, because there they were, shouting in each other’s faces, and then suddenly they were both drenched and spluttering under a brief but icy waterfall.

“Shut up and act civilized, both of you, or I’m getting out the garden hose!” Irene yelled from a second floor window, brandishing the empty bucket at them.  “I’m not kidding!  Behave!”

Ray wiped his eyes and looked up at her: dark hair hanging down out of the window like she was Rapunzel, generous mouth rolling out insults in a mixture of Italian and English that made his cheeks hot even though none of the words were _actually_ dirty.  Glowing in the late afternoon sunlight as she glared down at them like an avenging angel.

That was how it all began.

 

                        *                                    *                                    *

 

Ray isn’t sure when he started thinking of Fraser as a real person rather than a) an annoying stranger or b) a freak from an alien planet. 

He was still on the fence about how much he was going to bother helping Fraser track down his fathers’ killers, when there they were getting chewed out by Welsh for the bar fight (bar disaster with lots of guns) that was _all Fraser’s fault_ , and there was Ray sticking up for Fraser like they’d been called in to the principal’s office.  And then Welsh ordered him to drop the case, and what did Ray do?  Ran off to help Fraser like he was sneaking out of the house after being grounded.

All of which is to say that somehow Fraser had become Ray’s friend before Ray had even decided whether he liked the guy.

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

The worst part of PE was when Mrs. Lorenzo came to teach them to dance.  Ray liked basketball and he was okay enough at most other sports to not totally embarrass himself.  But he was no good at dancing.  He was always forgetting the steps or bumping into other couples or tripping over his partner’s feet. 

It shouldn’t have been that hard.  Normally, Ray could walk and talk and watch where he was going all at the same time.  He could dribble a ball down the court without running into anyone or getting the ball stolen, which was much harder than the frigging box step. 

The problem with dancing was, you had to do it with a girl.  And somehow, getting within arm’s length of a pretty girl turned Ray into a moron.  The more he tried to be cool and smooth and impress her, the more idiotic he sounded.  As for trying to talk to a girl and do anything else at the same time, especially _dance_ , just forget it.  Also, just to make things worse, sometimes holding a girl or even just thinking about it was enough to give Ray a boner, and then he had to stumble through the whole thing while keeping as much distance as possible and hoping the girl couldn’t see—or, God forbid, _feel_ —what was going on in Ray’s pants.  Which didn’t help any with his coordination _or_ his sweaty palms.

And then, there was the torture of having to pick partners.

Irene had skipped a grade and ended up in Ray’s class for Junior year, and she was nearly as tall as Ray even though he'd finally started growing for real, and she had curves like a woman, and. . .yeah, not at all kid-sister-ish any more.  She was maybe not the most beautiful girl in class judging on a straight points system, but she was right up there, what with the big, blue-green eyes and the long, soft hair that made Ray want to just plunge his hands into it.  Not to mention the killer smile, which she threw around casually like she didn’t know what kind of damage she was doing.

For weeks, he plotted his strategy for getting her to dance with him.  He figured the trick was to find something to talk to her about in the minute or two before class started, so that when Mrs. Lorenzo told them all to line up and pick partners, he’d be right there and could just casually toss it off: _hey, you want to dance with me?_   He practiced saying it in the mirror, so he could get the tone right: confident, cool, and charming.  Interested, but not _too_ interested.

When it finally came down to it, he sounded kind of breathless and squeaky but she didn’t laugh at him or anything.  Just said, “Sure,” and put her hand in his.

_Score!_

Except it was a frigging disaster.  The more Ray tried to stand up straight and step out confidently, the more he found himself stepping on Irene’s feet, or pulling one way while she tried to go another, or losing the beat entirely. 

“Just listen to the music, Ray,” she hissed in his ear, tugging on his arms.  “1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…”

“I know, I know.  Look, you got to follow where I’m going,” he snapped back under his breath.

“That would be easier if you were going somewhere in particular,” she replied.  “And if you were following the beat.”

Ray could feel himself blushing, as if he didn’t look like enough of an idiot already.  “You’re distracting me,” he grumbled.

Shockingly, she squeezed his hand.  Not a yank; a soft squeeze.  He shot a startled glance at her face and saw that she was giving him this strange little smile, kind of pleased, kind of. . .intrigued.

_Sweet baby Jesus._

“Okay,” he said.  He really wished he could dry his palms, but that would have meant letting go of her.  “Okay, look, we can do this, just. . .just relax and close your eyes and let me lead.  Okay?”

Now her smile did get kind of mocking, but she actually closed her eyes and stood there in perfect ballroom position, waiting for him to do something.  So he pulled her in closer, positioned his hand firmly on the small of her back, and tried to make his arms firm but supple like Mrs. Lorenzo had said.  He took a step back and Irene came with him.  Startled, he nearly forgot to keep moving, but he managed another step, and another, 2, 3…

He was holding her almost close enough for slow dancing; close enough to feel the warmth of her skin through her blouse and smell not just her light, flowery perfume, but the sharper girl-body smell underneath.  Since her eyes were still closed, he could watch her face.  She was smiling, kind of amused and dreamy at the same time, so he decided to push his luck.

“It might be easier if you put your head on my shoulder,” he whispered.  Her smile showed that she had his number, but she didn’t tell him off, and her head drooped forward onto his shoulder, and Ray got a whole minute of heaven before the song ended and they had to change partners.

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

Ray jams the keys into the ignition and floors the Chevy— _go go go stupid fucking piece of junk_ —peeling right so he can head off the Caddie before she makes it to the parking lot entrance.  She’s halfway there already, but Ray’s learned a trick or two from nine years of car chases, not to mention a lifetime driving in Chicago traffic.  It’s not quite enough, though: the Chevy doesn’t have enough juice to get him to the gate in time, he’ll have to— _fuck!_ Fraser’s standing right in the Cadillac’s path.

_Move move move you fucking idiot, you can’t play chicken with this lady, she just tried to shoot us both, she’ll splash your guts all over the fucking pavement, Fraser, move your ass!_

He grinds the pedal into the floor, slamming the steering wheel over hard as the engine groans.  The Chevy rams the Caddie—Ray’s arms lock in reflex as he’s thrown forward— _gotta remember to wear a seatbelt next time I decide to play action hero_ —something in his wrist goes _pop_ but he’s still in control of the car as it slews to a stop, plowing the Cadillac to one side.

Before he can even check to see what happened to Fraser, Fraser’s there, climbing over Ray’s hood to check on Mrs. Nutjob-Used-Car-Thief.  When Ray perfectly reasonably yells at him about the importance of not doing stupid things to get yourself killed, Fraser responds by telling him off for _changing the plan_ , which apparently involved Ray doing crazy driving stunts with some totally _other_ car.  Then he assures Ray that no apologies are necessary, which he seems to think is the end of the conversation.

 _No apologies necessary?  No frigging apologies necessary?_   What Fraser means is he doesn’t feel the need to apologize to Ray for setting him up to watch Fraser get killed because Ray didn’t know to take the Plymouth.  And what kind of crazy plan involves standing in front of a moving car and trusting your partner to save your ass at the last second anyway?

But it worked.  Fraser’s okay, everyone’s okay.  Just like nobody got shot in that warehouse where the bond thief put a gun to Ray’s head.  Just like they survived being trapped in an industrial freezer because Fraser used frozen meat first as blankets and then as a bulletproof vest.  And really, that’s too crazy even to think about, but here they both are, and there’s a whole bunch of bad guys in jail.  And it’s Ray’s name on the paperwork, but if it wasn’t for Fraser and his wacked-out plans, no one would have ever known about the horsemeat smugglers _or_ the used-car scam, let alone brought the perps in.

So Ray shakes his head, smiles, and claps Fraser on the shoulder.  “Come on, I’ve got a hell of a lot to explain to Welsh, and since you got me into this in the first place, you’ve got to come back me up.”

“I’d be glad to,” says Fraser, as they cuff the woman and escort her back to the office so Ray can call for a cruiser to collect the two prisoners.  “There is still one loose end to tie up, though.”

“Oh?  What’s that?”

“Lenny’s car is at the bottom of lake,” Fraser reminds him.  (Like Ray’s going to forget that fact in a hurry: he almost drowned in the damn trunk!)  “And though the car thieves may eventually be required to make restitution, I don’t imagine that the legal process will move swiftly.”

“So?”

“So, in the meantime, Lenny needs a car—access to a car, anyway—so that he can keep his job and meet the terms of his parole.”

Ray looks at Fraser, who gazes back at him with that innocent look that Ray is learning not to take at face value.  They both know what Fraser wants, although he’ll never say it straight out.  He’ll just zap Ray with silent Mountie guilt-rays until Ray gives in, so Ray may as well skip the part where he pretends he has any choice in the matter, save some time.  It’s late, and he’s exhausted from being half-drowned, and he’s still got to make it through an argument with Welsh and a pile of paperwork before he can get something to eat.

“All right, look, how about I lend Lenny my car,” Ray offers, then quickly clarifies, “Just for a couple of weeks, until he can make some other arrangement.”

“That’s very generous of you, Ray,” says Fraser.  “Lenny will be very grateful.  And I’m sure he’ll take good care of it.”

And oh, shit, that’s a warning: _Are you sure you want to do that, Ray?_   Which, no, he doesn’t, thank you very much. 

“I ain’t letting him behind the wheel.  He doesn’t have insurance, _my_ insurance doesn’t cover that, and anyway, I’m not letting some punk kid wreck my Riv.”

Fraser nods.  “Lenny seems to be a reasonably good driver for his age, but you’re wise to be cautious.”

Ray sighs.  “I’ll drive.  But you’re coming, too.”

“Of course.”

“And only for a couple of weeks.  I mean it.  I have a life, you know.”

Jesus Christ, thirty-three years old and he’s moonlighting as a pizza delivery boy, now.  Good thing his old man isn’t around to hear about it.

Of course, the fact that his dad would hate it almost certainly means it’s the right thing to do.  Who says Ray never learned anything from his old man?

“Come on, let’s get moving.  When we’re done explaining this mess to Welsh, we’re going to Giordano’s for deep-dish.  My treat.”

 

                                    *                                                *                                                *

 

“Good afternoon, ladies,” said Ray, pretending to tip a hat he wasn’t actually wearing.  Irene raised her eyebrows skeptically; Angelina and Christina (ages six and eight) giggled.  Ray solemnly kissed the girls’ pudgy little hands, which, of course, made them giggle more.  They both looked expectantly at Irene when Ray held out his hand to her.  Rolling her eyes, she let him kiss her hand, too, but didn’t let him hold onto it afterwards.

“When are you going to join the twentieth century, Ray?” she asked.

“Hey, it never hurts to be polite,” said Ray.  “Besides, I just can’t help showing my appreciation for such natural beauty.”  He gave the little girls a wink, relieved to have been able to get that line out without tripping over his tongue.

Irene rolled her eyes.

“Ready to hit the swings?” she asked the kids.  They ran eagerly for the swingset; Irene followed, her long legs easily keeping up with them.  Ray tagged along.

“Push me, push me!” Angelina insisted.  She shrieked with delight when Irene sent her swooping much higher than her own pumping could achieve.  Christina was already swinging under her own power, but not nearly as high, so Ray stepped up behind her, caught her at the top of her backward arc, and gave her a solid shove.

The girls’ braids flapped behind them; their patent-leather shoes kicked against the backdrop of brick and cement and glass that towered over the little scrap of playground.  Grinning, Ray looked over at Irene, who smiled back at him.

“You know, if you want your own babysitting job, I hear Mrs. Franconi’s looking,” she said.

“Got a job already,” he said, which was true.  In fact, he was going to be late for it if he didn’t leave in ten minutes, tops.  Anyhow, he didn’t want to think about the fit his old man would pitch if Ray took a babysitting gig.  Looking after his own sisters when he was twelve was one thing; getting paid to look after someone else’s?  That was for girls.

“So this is, what, just a hobby?” asked Irene.

“I like kids,” he told her.  He couldn’t quite get up the balls to spit out _I like you._ Not that she didn’t know it already, but it would sound dumb.  So he just gave her what he hoped was his best smile and kept pushing Christina, and Irene kept smiling back.

 

                        *                                                *                                                *

 

Fraser’s a good guy.  Fraser cares about justice.  Fraser sweats the small stuff and badgers Ray into backing him up while he does it.  Yes, he drives Ray nuts sometimes with the dumpster-diving and the mud-licking and the door-holding and the arguing with armed criminals who have a gun to his head, or _Ray’s_ head.  But Ray has to love the guy for the way he just won’t quit until he’s made everything come out right.

This is not news, but it hits Ray right between the eyes in the visiting room of the loony bin as Fraser spits a pill into his hand and offers it to him for evidence.  Fraser, who’s checked himself in as a mental patient to a joint where he thinks there’s been murder done, stripped himself of uniform and authority and frigging dignity, and put himself in the hands of people who might just give him a dose of electroshock on general principles.  Because Fraser will do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of the mystery.  Period.

If Fraser had been around in ’87, Ray thinks, he wouldn’t have wondered what the hell Ray thought he was trying to accomplish by going back to that arson scene for one last shot at finding something, anything, to link fucking Charles Carver to the crime.  Fraser wouldn’t have advised him to give it up and move on to some fight he could win.  Fraser would’ve been right there with him, sifting through ashes, probably tasting them and explaining how the mineral composition matched the smell of Carver’s hair or some damn thing.  Hell, Fraser would’ve found a way to send Carver down for the real nasty stuff, the abuse and murder, not just the damn arson.

“So, how’s the food?” he asks Fraser.  What he really wants to say is, _Thanks for reminding me what it’s like to have a real partner_ , or _Thanks for reminding me how to care,_ or even _I’ve never had a friend like you,_ but can’t actually say any of that stuff.  Not here and now, that’s for sure. 

So instead, he pats Fraser on the shoulder and tells him to hang in there.

“I will,” says Fraser, with an earnest nod.

“Okay, Benny.  I got to go.  I’ll visit again soon.”  Ray stands up with a little pat to his shirt pocket where Fraser’s pill is stashed.

Fraser nods again, his eyes meeting Ray’s.  “Thank you, Ray.”

And that’s partly for show, thanking Ray for the visit; and partly for real, thanking him for doing his part on this case, taking the pill to the lab and all the rest of the legwork, not to mention keeping tabs on Fraser in this self-imposed undercover op.  But the intensity of Fraser’s gaze makes Ray think maybe Fraser’s thanking him for more than that.

 

                              *                                                *                                                *

 

Hurrying to meet Irene, Ray rounded the back corner of the ice cream shop, but pulled up short at the sound of angry voices in the alley.  He sidled along the wall to peek around the corner.  Frankie had Irene backed up against the alley wall, gripping her by the arm.  Irene looked like she was crying, but she was yelling right back in his face.  They weren’t exactly trying to keep quiet, but they were shouting over each other, so Ray could only catch bits and pieces of what they were saying.

“—Pop finds out you’ll wish you were never born—“

“—none of your business who I see—”

“—job to look after you—“

“—don’t need a babysitter—”

“—your reputation, the _family’s_ reputation—”

“—look after myself—”

“—selfish, thoughtless, irresponsible—”

“—not the one fucking everything with two legs—”

“I am your brother.  You do not speak to me like that.  If Pop heard those words coming out of your mouth—”

“So why don’t you just tell him and get the hell out of my business?”

“Oh, you don’t want that, you really don’t want that.”  Frankie’s voice dropped dangerously.  “I don’t want him thinking I can’t look after you properly, and _you_ don’t want him knowing you’re giving yourself to some fucking poor excuse for a—”

Ray would have stepped in then, except that what did that say about him, if he was willing to take Frankie on for insulting _him_ but not for the way he was treating Irene?

As he hesitated, Irene cut Frankie off: “I’m not _giving myself_ to anybody, this is your whole problem, you think I’m just some _thing_ to be handed around—”

“ _Nobody puts his hands on my sister.”_   Frankie’s voice was sharp and deadly, and fuck, Ray _had_ to do something, because when Frankie sounded like that it meant someone was about to lose a couple of teeth.

“Then get yours off me,” snapped Irene.  “Otherwise I’ll scream for help and you can explain our family business to Mr. Leoni and all his customers.”

Before Ray could move, she came storming out of the alley, nearly barging straight into him.  Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she didn’t stop moving, just put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him backwards, gesturing frantically at the dumpster behind the ice cream shop.  Ray ducked behind it as Irene spun in her tracks.  Then he couldn’t see anything, but a few seconds later, he heard Frankie’s footsteps echo off the walls and fade away.

Ray came out from behind the dumpster and was half-surprised to find Irene still there, hugging herself and staring furiously in the direction Frankie must have gone.

Ray hurried to her side.  “What happened?  He didn’t hurt you, did he?  ‘Cause I swear, if he did—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start.  I’m fine,” she said, although she was crying and obviously not fine at all. 

“He’s got no call to treat you like that.”  Ray fished in his pockets for a handkerchief but came up empty.  “Are you okay?”

“That _bastard,_ ” Irene spat.  She swiped the tears from her eyes, leaving a smear of mascara across her cheek.  “It’s all right for him to sneak around with Susan Polanski even though he’s got a _girlfriend_ for Christ’s sake, but God forbid I should ever look at a boy, that would make me some kind of _slut._ ”

“Hey, hey, come on, it’s okay.”  Ray put his arm around her shoulders and tried to pull her close, but she resisted—not pulling _away_ -away, but turning her head and scrubbing at her eyes with her sleeve.  “Don’t worry.  If he does anything to you, I’ll break his face.”

Irene made a sound that wasn’t quite laughter.  “Oh, Ray.”

“What?  I will, I promise you.  He can’t treat you like that.”

She shook her head.  “Frankie won’t do anything to me.  You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“I can take him,” said Ray, although he wasn’t sure that was true.  Not to mention that if Frankie did come after him, he’d probably do it with a gang to back him up.

She looked at him, then, with her big, wet eyes, her cheeks blotchy with crying, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Don’t,” she said.  “Stay away from Frankie, Ray.  I mean it.”

“Okay, but—”

“You’ll just make things worse if you start something with him.  Promise.”

“All right.  I’ll stay out of his way unless _he_ tries to start something with _me_ ,” Ray told her.  “Cross my heart.”  He sketched a big X across his chest with one finger, which got a faint smile out of her, like he’d hoped it would.  Then she leaned in and—oh God— _kissed him_. 

They’d never kissed before, though Ray had been trying to work up to it, so the surprise of it almost distracted him from the actual kiss itself.  Her lips were soft and firm at the same time, and he’d always kind of imagined their first kiss being delicate, but she was kissing him hard, mashing his lips against his teeth before he caught up with what was going on and kissed her back.  He’d kissed a couple of girls before, but this was different.  This was the real thing.

Grinning like a total headcase, Ray wrapped his arms around her.  This time she let him hold her close with her head on his shoulder, her breath warm and damp against his throat.

“Nobody’s going to take you away from me,” she whispered fiercely in his ear.

 

                                    *                                                *                                                *

 

Ray walks down the steps of Y to the Riv where Fraser’s waiting in the passenger seat.  His hand’s starting to swell—he socked Zuko a good one, that’s for damn sure, and how is it fair that punching someone hurts almost as much as getting punched?  He should be shaking, but he’s not.  He feels. . .fine. . .or maybe a better word would be numb.

He slides into the driver’s seat.  Fraser hands him his gun.

“How are you?” asks Fraser.

“Scared to death,” Ray says.  And he _should_ be scared, because you don’t humiliate a guy like Zuko and leave him standing behind you, and Ray’s got his family to worry about, not to mention Fraser, whose face is starting to show ugly bruises from his earlier beating.  But he doesn’t _feel_ scared.

“That’s probably wise,” says Fraser quietly in that neutral tone that makes it really hard to figure out what he actually thinks.  Ray shoves the Riv into gear and pulls away from the curb, not looking at Fraser’s face, because he _can’t_.  Because, oh yeah, apparently Ray _is_ scared, here.  Just not of Frankie Zuko.

They drive in silence.  Ray can’t figure out if that’s a good sign or a bad one.  Fraser’s not usually shy about criticizing Ray—or, more annoyingly, that criticizing-without-criticizing thing he does.  He’s not shy about letting Ray know when he’s proud of something Ray’s done, either, although he usually uses a lot fewer words for that.  But Fraser’s not saying anything, here, and it’s sure as hell not because he doesn’t have an opinion about Ray laying Zuko out on the floor and blackmailing him into leaving the shoemaker guy alone.

 _Bullying._   It’s Fraser’s voice saying it, but only in Ray’s head, because real-life Fraser is just sitting there beside him, staring out the window, saying fuck-all.

 _What the hell did you want me to do?_ Ray asks Fraser-in-his-head.  _You wanted Paducci taken care of, and no one else was going to lift a finger._ You _couldn’t do anything for him.  You couldn’t go in there and knock Zuko down, play by his rules, lower yourself to his level.  So okay.  That’s my job.  Happy to do it.  Just don’t look at me like that._

“Ray!”  Fraser’s sharp exclamation snaps Ray’s attention to the road just in time to slam the brakes on so they don’t sail through a red light into a busy intersection.

“Sorry,” Ray mutters.

Fraser’s watching him as he waits for the green, as he eases carefully through the intersection, as he cuts across town heading for Fraser’s place.  Ray can feel Fraser’s eyes on him, but the silence is suffocating.  He couldn’t turn to look at Fraser if his life depended on it, even if he weren’t busy trying not to wreck the car.

After a million years, he finally pulls up in front of Fraser’s apartment building.  He lets the engine idle, but Fraser doesn’t get out of the car, and still doesn’t get out of the car.  Probably he’s waiting for Ray to look at him or say something or who the fuck knows what Fraser wants from Ray, except that whatever it is, it’s impossible, like always, and Ray wishes Fraser would just give up, get out of his car, leave him the hell alone.

Fraser’s hand closes gently around Ray’s forearm.

Ray stares out the windscreen at the dark street with Fraser’s strong fingers holding onto him in the silence.

Eventually—feels like forever—Fraser says softly, “Sleep well, Ray.”  And takes his hand away, and is out of the car, door thumping behind him.

Ray sleeps miserably, of course, waking up every couple of hours from dreams he’s probably just as happy to remember only snatches of.  His fist smashing across Fraser’s mouth, blood on Fraser’s lips, on Ray’s hand as he tries to say _no, wait, that’s not what I meant. . ._ Ray begging Fraser to hit _him_ , but Fraser just stands there looking at him with an unreadable expression and Ray wakes up before he finds out whether Fraser’s going to do it or not.

Finally he gives up and just lies there staring at the ceiling as daylight slowly brightens his window.  He wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at a basketball again without thinking of goddamned Frankie Zuko.

 

                                    *                                                *                                                *

 

Frannie pounced on Ray the minute he stuck his head in the door.  “Pop wanted to know where you were all afternoon.  I told him you’d gone over to Joey’s to study.”

“Thanks, Frannie.  I owe you one.”

“You owe me six, and that’s just this month.”  Frannie scowled.

“I know, I know,” Ray told her, hastily laying out silverware on the dining table before Ma could come yell at him for not doing his chores.  “You’re the best, honest to God.  Listen, I’ll take you out for ice cream tomorrow after school.”

Frannie didn’t even bat an eye at that.  “Ray, you’re going to get into trouble—“

“Don’t worry, it’s fine, I just missed the bus is all—“

“I’m serious.”  She glanced around to make sure the kitchen door was still closed.  “You’ve got to stop sneaking around with Irene Zuko.”

Ray’s stomach lurched—how the hell did Frannie know about him and Irene?—but he tried to bluff it out.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Actually, I _do_.  Probably half the school knows about it, and it’s only a matter of time before somebody tells Frankie, and then he’ll kill you both.  And then he’ll tell his pop and _he’ll_ kill you _for real,_ ” Frannie hissed furiously.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Ray told her.

“That’s what the dinosaurs said before the sun fell on them,” she snapped.

“Nobody’s going to kill anybody,” he said.  “Frankie’s an asshole, and his old man is. . .”  But even to Frannie, Ray couldn’t quite talk like that about old man Zuko.  “Anyway, they’re not going to find out, and if they do, it won’t be the end of the world.  I promise.”

“Tell that to Ma when Mr. Zuko has you shot!” Frannie said fiercely, then burst into tears.

Ray pulled his sister into a hug.  “Nothing like that is going to happen,” he repeated firmly, patting her on the back.  “Just don’t you worry about it.”

“ _Somebody_ has to,” she sniffled into his shoulder.  “And apparently you’re too stupid, so that makes it my job.”

 

                                    *                                                *                                                *

 

 _Guys_ _like him don’t marry girls like you.  That’s fairy tale.  And girls like you get hurt and guys like him don’t even know it and that’s life._

One hand on the wheel, Ray rubs his face with the other, trying to focus on the road, trying to get the stupid fucking words to stop repeating in his head.  He’s been up for seventy. . .eighty. . .he can’t even remember how fucking long he’s been up by now, what with all the chasing around after the lost girl and Fraser’s pet psychic homeless guy and the dickwad feebs and of course he lost his temper with Frannie, what could anyone expect, the week he’s been having? 

And it’s not like Frannie didn’t deserve—didn’t _need_ Ray to knock the stars out of her eyes, make her stop making a fool of herself and setting herself up for worse than humiliation.  Because maybe Fraser. . .maybe he slept with her and maybe he didn’t, but either way Ray knows damn well it was Frannie who did the pushing.  Can’t blame Fraser for being human enough to go for a pretty girl who’s been throwing herself at him for a year.  And honestly, if he _did_ , it was probably only because he was too freaking embarrassed or polite or—or _nice_ to turn her down.

Not Fraser’s fault Ray’s sister is dumb as rocks when it comes to men.

Not Fraser’s fault.  Not Fraser’s fucking fault.

_You are so afraid to reach out or something that you really want._

Yeah, easy for Frannie to say.  Like Ray hasn’t spent his whole life trying, reaching out and getting smacked down.  Like he hasn’t been turned down or left by every woman he’s ever wanted, up to and including his ex-wife.  Like he hasn’t spent his life taking shit from his dad and half the neighborhood for turning cop, then taking shit from his boss and the other half of the neighborhood because there's no way a guy like him could possibly be a _clean_ cop.  From his mother for risking his neck and getting divorced and not giving her grandchildren.  From his freak of a new partner, for not being a saint and a superhero all rolled into one pretty package.

Some asshole cuts him off; Ray slams on the brake and pounds his horn, cursing.  The light’s gone red now, so he slumps in his seat, waiting for the green.

“Something I really want?  What the hell would that be?” he mutters.

Fraser would probably be able to tell him the answer.  Or, no, Fraser wouldn’t tell him, Fraser would just listen to him like he does when someone’s upset or struggling with a big moral decision.  He would maybe ask a few leading questions, and it would all just come out of Ray’s mouth, so obvious, so simple.

But Fraser’s not here.  He wasn’t in sight when Ray finally got up the energy to walk out of the interrogation room after his fight with Frannie.  Ray didn’t look for him, just made a beeline for his car.  Because he just couldn’t deal with Fraser right then.  He might have socked him in the face or. . .or something.

Horns blare behind him.  He floors the Riv and shoots through the intersection, swerving to miss a car turning left across traffic.  Fraser’s not there to criticize him for cutting it close.  Fraser’s walking alone in the shitty streets of his slum of a neighborhood, or he’s cooking spaghetti for his stupid wolf, or he’s asleep on his crummy bed in his rat-hole apartment.

Ray thinks about driving over to West Racine to apologize.  He’s not sure if he means apologize for not offering Fraser a ride home, or for jumping down his throat about Frannie, or for Frannie herself, for Zuko, for the fact that the world is basically a shit-hole in spite of how Fraser wants it to be.  Or for something else entirely.

Fraser would be polite about it.  He’d let Ray in, even if Ray woke him up.  He’d listen to whatever bullshit came out of Ray’s mouth.  Fraser’s his friend.

Ray really, really needs some sleep.

_You know what happens to people like you?  They get old.  They get alone.  And they die.  And they never know._

 

                                    *                                                *                                                *

 

Cold raw almost-spring night and Ray was out without his jacket, his hands stuffed into his armpits, and yeah, it was the cold that was making him shake, that was it.  Staring up at the dark windows of the Zuko place, not even thinking straight enough to wonder what he was doing there.

Irene’s window was on the second floor, right of center.  He chucked a handful of gravel up there; it took him three tries before he actually hit the window and then another before Irene stuck her head out and saw him shivering down in the street.

God bless her, she didn’t protest, didn’t make a sound, didn’t disappear back into her window and leave him in the dark.  She gave the big vine by her window a shake, gesturing at him to climb up.  She helped him scramble over her windowsill and pulled the comforter off her bed to wrap him up.  Didn’t touch his banged-up face, didn’t say anything, just held him close under the comforter until finally the heat of her soaked into him and the shivers tapered off.

“My ma’s in the hospital,” he whispered to her there in the dark.

“Shit.  Is she going to be okay?”

“He put her there.  I couldn’t. . .I tried, I fucking tried.”  

“Jesus, Ray,” she murmured.

“He doesn’t—that’s not what he—he didn’t mean to.  She fell.  And I. . .and he. . .”  He swallowed against the churning of his stomach.

“Your sisters?” she asked.

“Took them to Aunt Maria’s.” 

“Good.  That’s good.  You did good, Ray.”  She stroked his head, holding him tightly as the tears leaked out of him onto her nightgown.

“It’s never going to be enough,” he whispered, and Irene whispered back, “It’ll be all right.”

 

                                    *                                                *                                                       *           

 

One of the great things about Fraser is that he understands how to bicker.  Ray comes from a family where bickering is the normal way you communicate.  You can tell someone’s actually upset about something important when they shut up.  Bickering is how Ray deals with people, and it’s also how he expresses affection: we can give each other shit, we must be friends.  Now, granted, Fraser’s not a big one for yelling, and when he gives people shit, it’s so subtle they never know he’s doing it.  Also, he has this total polite act—okay, not _act_ , exactly, because he always has good manners, even when he’s laying down the law or refusing to do what people want him to.  But Fraser gets where Ray’s coming from; he speaks the same language, even if his accent’s a little funny.  He bickers with Ray all the time about little stuff like traffic regulations and the meanings of words and whether it’s okay to lick chewing gum someone spat out in the street.  It’s one of the reasons they get along so well.

But for the last couple of weeks—since the Zuko thing, to be honest—the bickering between him and Fraser hasn’t been their usual friendly kind.  Seems like Ray can’t open his mouth without jumping down Fraser’s throat for no reason. 

At first, Fraser responded with his guaranteed-drive-you-nuts calm-voice-of-reason schtick, which of course only made Ray’s temper shorter.  Then Fraser started getting annoyed (people think the Mountie never lets anything ruffle him, but by now Ray can tell when Fraser’s irritated).  But the last couple of days, Fraser’s just been getting quieter and quieter, barely speaking to Ray at all apart from the minimum necessary to get work done.  Keeping an eye on him, though.

Right now, Fraser’s sitting by Ray’s desk, silently reading through the billion files Ray shoved at him when he arrived, and also watching Ray sideways, which Ray’s pretending not to notice.  Ray’s mostly not talking, either, because he knows if he does he’ll just snap at Fraser.  He doesn’t feel like talking, anyway; he feels run-down and miserable, like he’s coming down with the flu.  He’s tempted to tell Fraser to get lost, but Fraser would probably argue with him, and then Ray might lose his temper for real, which Fraser doesn’t deserve.  Fraser doesn’t deserve any of the treatment he’s been getting from Ray; Fraser hasn’t done anything.  (Well, except maybe let himself be seduced by Frannie, but if so, he’s apologized for that, and anyway Ray’s _not thinking about that_ any more.)

Ray’s just trying to work up the energy, or the nerve, to suggest that Fraser should call it a day, when Fraser—apparently out of the blue—puts the files down, leans forward across Ray’s desk, and says, “I’m sorry, Ray.”

“What are you apologizing for this time?” asks Ray, although if it’s anything like the last time Fraser tried to apologize to him, he really doesn’t want to hear the answer.

Fraser frowns, then says, “Actually, I’m not sure.”  He licks his lips before continuing, slowly, looking Ray straight in the eyes.  “But you’re upset with me, and I expect it’s because I’ve done something that. . .offended you.  And I’m sorry for that.”

Ray wonders what word Fraser was thinking instead of _offended._

“Yeah, great, thanks,” he says.  He gets up and heads for the break room, the john, anywhere away from his desk.  But of course, Fraser refuses to take the hint.  Instead of giving Ray a little space, he follows on his heels.  As they pass the supply closet, Fraser yanks the door open, does a nifty little pivot, and bam! the two of them are shut in there, practically nose-to-nose in the dark.

Ray stuffs his hands in his pockets and keeps his mouth shut.

“Ray, I can’t make amends for what I’ve done unless you tell me what it is,” Fraser says.

“Fraser, I am not discussing this with you in a supply closet,” Ray tells him. 

“We can talk about it somewhere else if you prefer,” suggests Fraser in that ultra-reasonable tone that makes sane people want to hit him with a brick.

Fortunately, there are no bricks in the closet, so all Ray can do is snap, “I do not want to talk about it at all!”

“If this is about Francesca—”

“Don’t talk to me about my sister!”

“Ray, please.” 

Ray’s never heard Fraser sound so. . .young, before.  It reminds him of the way he looked when he was following that Smithbauer jerk around, like Benny had turned into a teenager, heart on his sleeve for anyone to take a piece out of, desperate for his best friend to like him. 

“I hate to see you hurt,” says Fraser.  “Please.  Tell me how to fix this.”

“Fix what, Benny?  Fix me?  It’s too late for that, don't you think?”  The words spill out of him, harsh and bitter.  “I’m never going to be like you.  I’m never going to be what you want me to be.  I cut corners and bend regs to get shit done, and I go home to sleep at night and don’t worry about all the people whose problems it isn’t my job to solve.  And when I _do_ go out on a limb to make a difference in this rotten world, I get my hands dirty, because that’s how it works for people like me.  I’m a bully, just like Zuko.  Just another fucking splash of dirt on your nice, clean world.”

He needs to get out of here, but Fraser’s between him and the door, and besides, he can’t let anyone see him like this.

“Ray,” says Fraser softly.  “I’m sorry.  I. . .didn’t know you felt this way.”

“Yeah, because you think I don’t listen to you.  You think I don’t give a damn.  You think it’s easy, following you around while you act like the world’s supposed to be some kind of fucking Christmas special?”

“No,” says Fraser.  “I know it isn’t easy.  I’m astonished that you put up with my company at all, let alone with as much grace as you do.  I’m aware that I can be difficult to get along with.”

“You’re fine, Fraser,” Ray sighs.  “This is not about what I think of you.  It’s about what you think of me.”

“You’re my friend,” says Fraser.

“Smithbauer’s your friend, too,” snaps Ray.  “You think I don’t know how you felt about him taking money to throw that game?  You think I don’t wonder how you feel about what I did for your damn shoemaker?”  _What I did for you,_ he can’t quite spit out.  But Fraser’s not an idiot.

Fraser’s voice isn’t much more than a whisper.  “It was a battle I couldn’t win.  Not without you.  And what you did.  You saved Mr. Paducci’s life.”

“But you—think less of me for it.”  It’s only the dark that lets Ray get the words out at all.

Fraser’s quiet for a long moment.  When he does speak, he sounds unusually hesitant.  “I think more of you for your willingness to make sacrifices in order to defend the weak and innocent.  In this case, a sacrifice I. . .would not have been able to make, myself.”

Ray doesn’t know what to say to that.

After a moment, Fraser speaks again.  “I sometimes wonder what it says about me that I’m unwilling to compromise for the greater good.  And that I’m willing to let someone else—to let _you_ —do what I refuse to do myself."

“Don’t you change.”  The words are out of Ray’s mouth before he knows he’s going to say them.  “I love you just the way you are.”

Fraser doesn’t reply.  In fact, he says nothing so loudly and for so long that finally Ray has to snap the light on to find out whether he’s teleported out or turned into a pillar of salt or what.

Fraser’s staring at him with a stunned expression. 

After what seems like a million years, Fraser says quietly, “I think the last person who was able to say that to me was my mother, and she died when I was six.”

“Well,” says Ray, because they can’t just stand here in the closet staring at each other forever.  “Well, okay, so we’re a couple of misfits, that’s why we get along so well.”

Fraser opens his mouth, but Ray isn’t giving him a chance to say something they might both regret; he just claps Fraser on the shoulder, saying, “Come on, let’s get out of here, I need something to eat, and then we’ve got to track down a stolen van full of live snakes, just the kind of case that makes your day.”

“Right you are,” says Fraser as he opens the door.

 

                                    *                                                *                                    *

 

He’ll remember Irene’s kisses until the day he dies.  Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night thinking about them.  He and Irene were just teenagers—kids, really—and he never knew how she learned to kiss like that.  He liked to think she was just naturally good at it, the way she was good at school and dancing and track. . .Yeah, all right, he wasn’t the first guy Irene had kissed, he knew that.  But that was okay.  He was the one she was kissing now, the only one.  She could have had just about any boy in town, but she wanted _him_ , Ray Vecchio.  Wanted him here in the alley behind DeRosa’s liquor store.

“Ray. . .mm. . .Ray, stop it, we have to stop now.”

“You don’t like?”  He pulled his mouth away from hers, put a little space between their bodies, because that was what a gentleman should do, even though he was pretty sure she _did_ like what he was doing.  She’d been kissing him and rubbing up against him just as enthusiastically as he had, plus which, this was Irene and if she didn’t like something, she wouldn’t make any bones about telling him so.

“I have to go,” she insisted.  “I’ll be late and Pop will want to know where I was.”

“So don’t tell him.”

“Ray,” she said warningly, pushing on his shoulders.

“All right, all right, sorry.  I just hate that we can’t. . .”  There was no point in saying the rest.  They’d said it all a million times before.  Her father, his father, her brother, people talking, the whole frigging sorry nine yards. 

She kissed him on the forehead.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Algebra, dummy.”

“No, but after school?” he asked.

“Ma wants me to help cook for the party on Saturday.  I’m sorry.” 

As she turned to go, he blurted out, “Wait, I need to ask you something.”

“What?”

His heart started pounding like they hadn’t been together all this time, like he hadn’t had his tongue in her mouth on a regular basis and his hands under her shirt and even up her skirt that one time.  But he’d been thinking about it for weeks, and this was his chance; he had to ask her, now.

“Will you come to the prom with me?”

“What?”  She looked at him incredulously; he couldn’t tell if she was happy or angry or what.  “Ray, that’s ridiculous, are you insane?”

“No, I’m tired of all this bullshit sneaking around.”  He took her hand.  She didn’t resist, so he kissed it, looking up at her through his eyelashes.  Her mouth twitched in that way that meant she was trying not to smile.  The knot in his stomach relaxed a little.

“Just come with me,” he coaxed.  “What can they do to us?”

Irene looked at him for a long moment, then sighed.  She didn’t pull her hand away, though.  “Ray, it’s a beautiful idea and I love you for it, but no.  You know we can’t.”

He wanted to argue, but he could predict pretty much exactly how both sides of that argument would go, and Irene wasn’t actually wrong.  And he didn’t want to fight with her.  She was on his team.  Not to mention, it was a sucky way to waste the little bits of time they could steal together.

“Yeah,” he sighed, squeezing her hand.  “I know.”  She was so beautiful, he could look at her forever, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t fair, and. . .  “Wait, did you just say—?”

“Yes.”  She kissed him softly.  “Now shut up.”

“I love you,” he told her.

“I know."

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

Ray only knows Fraser’s got a birthday coming up because he did a little intelligence gathering at the Consulate one afternoon when Fraser was on statue duty.  Because, obviously, Fraser would never admit that he _has_ a birthday, in case somebody took it into their head to celebrate it.  Fortunately, he has Ray to take care of this kind of thing.

“Hey, Benny, what do you want to do for your birthday?” Ray asks as they sit down to grab a quick hamburger on their way back to the station house.  Fraser actually does a very small, blink-and-you’d-miss-it double-take, and then gives this weirdly shy smile that does funny things to Ray’s stomach. 

“Frankly, I don’t usually celebrate my birthday,” says Fraser.  “Not that I have anything against the tradition, I’ve simply never had much reason to do so.”

“All the more reason to do it up right this year,” Ray tells him.  “Hey, I could throw you a party, there’s lots of room at my place.” 

“Actually, to tell the truth. . .”  Fraser rubs his eyebrow with his thumbnail.  “I think I’d prefer something a little quieter.  More. . .intimate.”

Ray chokes in surprise and has to take a hasty drink of water and pretend like he’s coming down with a cough.  Because even though the way Fraser said it was not suggestive or anything, still. . .Still.

So that’s how they end up at Scarpetta’s, where Ray doesn’t normally even go for a date unless he thinks he’s got a serious chance, seeing as how it costs an arm and a leg.  It’s the place you go for golden wedding anniversaries and engagement parties.  It’s next door to sacred, and it’s the best restaurant Ray knows, and Fraser deserves a taste of that.  And Ray gets to give it to him.

Fraser’s out of uniform; shockingly, he’s wearing a tuxedo.  He claims to have borrowed it from Huey, but if so, Huey owns a tux that doesn’t fit him for crap, because the damn thing fits _Fraser_ perfectly.  He looks like a million bucks, that goes without saying.  Ray’s got on a good suit, which makes him underdressed next to Fraser, but he doesn’t really mind, he’s just happy that Fraser chose civvies.  Because this is not Mountie business in any way.  It’s a purely social birthday. . .party.  Two-person party. 

And kind of a weird one, after the first few minutes.  It’s not like Ray and Fraser don’t go out to eat together all the time.  Yeah, okay, not usually at a fancy place, and yeah, okay, it’s Fraser’s birthday, but even so, it shouldn’t be a big deal.  Except Fraser’s just looking so quietly _delighted_ by the whole thing that somehow it’s getting Ray agitated, to the point where he’s completely thrown off his game.  He can’t keep track of what he’s saying, he can hear his laugh getting loud and fake, and he finds himself fussing with his food because it’s easier than looking at Fraser’s weirdly happy face.

But of course, Fraser picks up on Ray’s antsy behavior, and responds by turning. . .hearty.  His smile gets broad and self-conscious; he laughs at his own jokes; he starts using words like _crackerjack._ He keeps the conversation flowing—takes it over, when Ray dries up completely.  Makes interesting observations about the news headlines, Italian cuisine, Eskimo hunting techniques, Ray doesn’t even know what-all.  All Ray knows is that Fraser’s disappeared behind some kind of defensive wall of nervous cheer, and it’s all Ray’s fault, he’s ruined the whole evening and he didn’t even _do_ anything.

Which, come to think of it. . .maybe that’s exactly the problem, here.

He takes a gulp of his wine and looks across at Fraser, who’s still chattering away about something or other.

“You want to dance?” Ray asks.

That surprises Fraser enough to actually shut him up for a second.  He blinks at Ray for a couple of seconds, then asks, “Are you sure?”

“Fraser, when someone asks you to dance, you say yes or no.  Maybe you say no, thank you kindly; or no, I’m feeling tired; or no, I’d rather die than dance with a guy who’s losing his hair.  But those are the options.  What you don’t do is start a debate.  So.”  He stands up and holds out his hands.  “Yes, or no?”

Fraser tenses up for a second, and Ray’s suddenly sickeningly sure that this has all been a horrible mistake.  But then Fraser just relaxes all at once—body, face, everything—and he flashes that little shy smile and no, okay, everything’s going to be okay.

“Yes,” says Fraser.  He puts his hand in Ray’s and actually waits for Ray to give him a polite assist out of his chair, like he’d do for a woman.  Puts his free hand on Ray’s shoulder and waits expectantly.

Ray isn’t much of a dancer to begin with, and the fact that he’s standing in the middle of a crowded restaurant ten blocks from his mother’s house with his arms around a guy is, face it, pretty nervous-making.  But he’s damn well not going to give Fraser any reason to say _I told you so_ , not that he’d actually _say_ so.  Anyway, it’s not like there’s room to try anything fancy: Scarpetta’s doesn’t actually have a dance floor, as such, just a little space between tables.  Ray grips Fraser’s hand firmly but gently, using his other hand, the one on Fraser’s back, to guide him, just like Mrs. Lorenzo taught them back in P.E.  Just a simple box step, which is about all Ray remembers how to do, but at least he doesn’t trip on his own feet or Fraser’s.

And Fraser follows Ray’s lead like. . .magic.  It’s like riding a bike: Ray doesn’t even have to think about what to do, he just moves and Fraser’s there with him, right where he needs to be.  Fraser’s posture is real upright and formal, like usual, but he’s not stiff at all, just solid.  A bomb wouldn’t shake him, but just a little pressure from Ray’s hand can steer him.

Which is weird, Ray realizes.  Not that Fraser can dance: the guy can do everything else, it would be weird if he _couldn’t_ dance.  But he’s a guy, he must be used to leading just like Ray is, and yet, here he is, following Ray’s lead like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  He’s not fighting Ray for the lead; he’s not resisting or hesitating.  He’s not criticizing or making suggestions or silently disapproving of Ray’s moves.  He’s just flowing along with the music, going where Ray wants him to go.

Fraser’s gaze is fixed over Ray’s shoulder (just like Mrs. Lorenzo taught), and he’s wearing this solemn expression that obviously wants to turn into a smile, because the corners of his mouth keep twitching.

“Hey, Benny.”  Ray smiles as Fraser’s face turns to his, and yeah, all right, Fraser’s mouth relaxes into a smile, his eyes crinkling around the corners as they look right into Ray’s.  Ray’s heart kicks and his palms start to sweat, but screw it, he’s a grown man and if embarrassment could kill you, he’d have been dead years ago.

Ray twirls Fraser under his arm and reels him back in, smooth as anything, and from there it isn’t hard at all to lean in and kiss his smiling mouth.

It’s a sweet kiss, but it’s got some oomph, and not all on Ray’s side, either.  Some of that oomph is coming from Fraser, who kisses him back like he doesn’t plan to stop any time soon.  Ray’s got one hand on Fraser’s cheek, the other planted on the small of his back, and when he moves that lower hand just a little, just rubbing Fraser’s back a tiny little bit, he feels Fraser shiver.

Ray pulls back to look him in the face, trying to ignore the fact that they’re standing here like some kind of Disney-type statue in the middle of a crowded restaurant.  Benny stares back at him with that shy-teenager, tagging-along-after-Smithbauer expression.

“I have an apartment,” he says quietly.  Whatever Ray was expecting him to say, that wasn’t it.

“I know.  It’s a rat-hole.”

“It’s private.  More so than your house.  Fewer relatives.”

“Is that what you want?” asks Ray.

“I love you, Ray,” says Benny like it’s an answer to the question, which maybe it is, at that.

 

                                    *                                                *                                                *

 

Up the stupid vine, stairway to heaven.  Irene’s bed, enclosed by curtains, was a whole separate world.  A little planet just big enough for the two of them. 

Making out with Irene made Ray muzzy-headed and goofy and clumsy, kind of like the couple of times he’d gotten drunk on booze swiped from peoples’ parents’ liquor cabinets, except without feeling sick afterwards.  Both their shirts were off, her bra, too.  Ray could barely see her.  Just a sliver of light from the window sliced through the crack where one curtain met the next; it drew a diagonal line across Irene’s ribcage.  Her breasts were curved shadows; her face all but invisible.  But he could tell from her breathing and her low laughter that she liked what he was doing, not to mention the way her hands guided his head, encouraging him to linger over her breasts. 

He licked her nipples, then took one into her mouth and sucked on it.  That had seemed like a weird thing to do the first time he tried it, but Irene said it felt good, and it actually was kind of a turn-on for him, too.  Or maybe it was just the way it made her breath get all quick and shallow that was the turn-on.

He was lying halfway on top of her, his legs between her knees, his bare bellybutton resting on her skirt, right on top of her pelvis, his crotch rubbing against the sheets, which felt nice, but not as nice as her hand on him would.  He scooted up the bed, rolling so he was beside her instead of on her.  He ran a hand up her thigh, under her skirt, then stroked his thumb over her panties.

“Ray. . .” she whispered.

“Can I?” he tugged at the waistband of her panties.  She let him pull them down, wriggled her way out of them entirely, but then surprised him by squirming away into the dark at the head of the bed.

“What—?”

Her hand found his and pressed something into it.  Something flat and square and sealed in plastic. . .When he realized what it was, he stopped breathing for a second.

Her breath was loud in the dark.  He reached out his other hand, found her shoulder, then her face.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really.”

“You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure.”

His heart was hammering: from happiness or terror, he couldn’t tell which.  He fumbled the wrapper open, then spent forever trying to roll the condom onto himself in the dark.  So long, in fact, that Irene made a little exasperated noise and reached over to help him.  Her sudden touch on his dick nearly made him hit the ceiling, but didn’t help him get the condom on any faster.

When he finally got the damned thing on (it felt weird, and he couldn’t tell if he’d done it right or what), he kissed her and eased her back down onto the pillows.

“You’re sure this is okay?”

“Ray,” she warned.

“Okay, okay.”  He took a deep breath, let it out.  Tried to smile, although she probably couldn’t see his face.  “Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoed back at him, teasing.

He reached around behind her, fumbling for the button and zipper of her skirt with one hand because he had to lean on the other one to keep from falling over.  He managed to get her skirt open, but then she was lying on the fabric and how was he supposed to get it off her?  He tried to tug it over her hips.  Irene squirmed, levering her hips up off the bed and then wriggling up towards the headboard as Ray pulled the skirt the other way.  All that movement made the mattress jounce like a bus going over potholes, and Ray was up on his knees with both his hands busy, so the next thing he knew he was sprawled half across her with his nose mashed against her shoulder. 

Irene dissolved into giggles.  Ray tried to push himself off her, but she pulled him down again, both arms clamped firmly around his bare back, muffling her laughter against his shoulder.  Ray started laughing, too.

“Shh, shh, someone will hear.”  She pushed his face into a pillow, still giggling herself.  With a grunt of protest, he wriggled free and grabbed another pillow to shove at her, and the whole thing turned into a breathless tussle, both of them trying to stifle their laughter, with Irene’s four-poster bed creaking fit to bust.  Ray ended up pinned under Irene, with her hands pressing his wrists down into the bed.  Her hair brushed his face as she looked down at him.

“Take it from the top?” she murmured. 

He licked his lips and nodded.

He carefully rolled her over onto her back, gathered up her long hair out of her face and arranged it on the pillow.  He kissed her mouth.  Then he kissed the hollow of her throat and kept going down, between her breasts, down to her bellybutton, to the edge of her springy curls.  She raised her knees, spreading her legs wider. 

He wondered what it would be like to kiss her down there—he’d heard of _eating out_ , knew what it was, kind of, but he didn’t want to freak her out and anyway he had no idea how to do it.  So instead he just ran his hands over the inside of her thighs and then moved them in to meet on that cushion of hair between her hips.

He’d touched her there before, but not from this angle, and not for _this_.  He looked up at her face, which he could barely make out in the dark; she was looking at him, but that was about all he could tell.

“Ray.  It’s okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed.  He touched himself to make sure the condom was still rolled all the way up.  With his left hand, he awkwardly held her open so he could position himself with his right.  He took one more peek at her face, just to make sure she wasn’t going to stop him after all, but then he had to close his eyes before he could push into her.

It wasn’t like having her hand on him; it was miles away from the way he felt when he beat off by himself.  It was like she was touching him everywhere at once; or like his whole body and mind were focused down into one spot and one consuming feeling.  It was like falling, or falling apart.  It was like being injected with happiness.  It wasn’t like anything.

It was probably over pretty quickly, though at the time it felt like forever.  Ray rolled to one side before he let himself collapse, so he wouldn’t squash Irene.  He gathered her into his arms and nuzzled her hair as his breathing gradually slowed down.  He felt limp and warm and sleepy, but no, he couldn’t drift off, there was something important, he just had to remember how to think. . .

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah.”  He couldn’t tell if she was smiling or not.

“Sure?”

“I’m sure.”  Her face turned to his and they were kissing, and that was nice, yeah, maybe he could just do this forever, soft sleepy kisses. . .

She moved his hand down between her legs; rocked it back and forth a little until he got the idea and started stroking and rubbing her under his own steam.  They kept kissing and her breath speeded up until she was gasping softly against his mouth and he was kind of gasping, too, and then suddenly she melted against him, totally limp except for her grip on his wrist. 

He didn’t dare move; he would’ve stopped breathing if he could’ve.  Until she pressed her lips against his collarbone with a contented little noise, slid one leg over his and snuggled up against his chest.  Grinning, he kissed the top of her head.

The vine was even more of a pain to climb down than up, and the night was cold, and it was a long walk back to Ray’s house where he’d have to sneak in without waking anybody up.  He held Irene close, with her hair tickling his nose, trying to stretch out the minutes as long as possible before she reminded him to get going.

 

            *                                                *                                                 *

 

Benny closes his apartment door behind Ray and the two of them just stand there looking at each other.  Ray wasn’t nervous before, but now he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his eyes.  Benny’s rubbing his eyebrow and tugging at his cuffs like suddenly the tux jacket’s too short, which isn’t helping Ray’s nerves any.

“We don’t have to. . .”  Ray blurts out.

“What?” asks Benny.

“You know.  Do anything.  We can just. . .”  Ray doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence.  Especially not with Benny _looking_ at him like that.

“It’s all right,” says Benny quietly, putting his hand on Ray’s shoulder.  It’s the voice he uses to talk desperate men out of setting themselves on fire; no way not to believe that voice.  So Ray does.  Except then Benny goes still and says, much less certainly, “Isn’t it?”

“That’s right, it is,” Ray assures him, and steps forward into kissing range.

After that, it’s easy.  They kiss sweetly for a while, with their arms around each other like the closing shot of a classic movie.  Then just when Ray’s thinking he ought to maybe be making some kind of a move except that what they’re doing feels too nice to interrupt, one of Benny’s hands comes up to cradle Ray’s head and the other slides down to firmly grip his ass and suddenly they’ve catapulted out of _nice_ smack into _hot_ and moving fast into _frantic._   Benny steers him backwards and Ray just goes with him, letting Benny worry about where they’re going while Ray concentrates on getting Benny’s bowtie off and his shirt buttons undone (and thank God Huey’s tux isn’t the ritzy kind that takes studs all up the front). 

The backs of Ray’s knees hit the bed and he sits down hard, half expecting Benny to just fall straight on top of him and rip his clothes off.  But Benny stops and stands there with his shirt hanging open and his jacket still on and his chest flushed from the heart up.  Looks down at Ray with huge eyes, his lower lip between his teeth.

“Don’t change,” he says, low and intense. 

Doesn’t he know how much Ray has changed already, because of him?  How much he makes Ray want to be better than he is?  But Benny’s eyes are boring into him, and he gets that this is a gift Benny’s giving to him, but it’s more than that.  Benny _wants_ him not to change.  Ray doesn’t know why the hell he's what Benny wants, but he reaches up with both hands for Benny’s bare waist.

“You know what’s under the hood,” he says, through a throat so tight he can barely breathe.  “You taking me as-is?”

Benny nods.  His hands settle lightly on Ray’s shoulders.

“’Cause I don’t do refunds,” says Ray. 

Benny makes a noise like he’s been shot and then Ray’s flat on his back with Benny’s full weight pressing him into the mattress and Benny’s mouth covering his and Benny’s hands touching him everywhere at once.  Ray manages to wrestle the shirt and jacket off him and wriggle out of some more of his own clothes, leaving them wrapped around each other like a pretzel with their pants and shoes still on.  They’re both panting hard now, and Ray can hear himself moaning in a way that ought to be embarrassing except he can’t be bothered to care, because Benny’s breath is hot against his ear, and Benny’s whispering roughly, over and over, so softly Ray can barely hear him:

“Don’t go.”


End file.
